


Sacred Hymns

by sunaddicted



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Ar-Pharazon is whipped, Asphyxiation, Black Speech, Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Forced Marriage, Hate Sex, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Mairon is a closeted sap, Mairon is the High Priest, Mairon literally is a Little Flame, Melkor's worship, Numenor is in deep shit with those two in charge, Religious Fanaticism, Rough Sex, Sad, Self-Combustion, Tar-Miriel is so done, delusions of grandeur, he still misses Melkor very much, i shift a lot between Mairon and Sauron, infidelty, it depends on the pov, people burning alive, there are some disturbing details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A careless shrug of a female shoulder and a sour grimace on a beautiful face.<br/>A greedy and mumbled ‘yes’ in a masculine voice.<br/>That was all that took to write the fate of Númenor and its impending fall from grace.<br/>A sharp laugh travelled to Valinor, slithering in the Halls of Mandos where Melkor listened to it with relief, echoing it with his baritonal voice: soon, he would be free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred Hymns

**Author's Note:**

> A little warning: Mairon is the High Priest of Melkor's cult in this fic so, be careful if you're squeaked by sexual relationships involving religious figures and lots of fanaticism in the bedroom. I didn't inspire myself to a particular religion to shape the guidelines of Melkor's worship and I don't want to offend anyone.  
> Have fun reading and thanks for stopping by!

_Sacred Hymns_

Clad with richly embroidered silk and draped with jewels that outlined beautifully her alluring body, Tar-Míriel wrinkled her nose in utter disgust as her husband walked by and didn’t even spare her a glance; it wasn’t surprising, considered the identity of the person that was strolling with him: with his pure white robes donned on and the crimson hair held back by a tastefully simple golden circlet, Sauron strode the halls of their palace with blood-curling and astonishing confidence that made her skin crawl.

Her hatred for her husband’s most trusted counsellor wasn’t a secret and she was shunned by her people for it, reduced to a mere trophy put on display for foreign royals and dignitaries like a particularly luxurious piece of art: cold and mute, shackled to her glorified pedestal and unable to act as history rolled by.

Sighing, Tar- Míriel followed them: it still was her kingdom and she wouldn’t let a sadistic maniac, whose moniker meant ‘the Abhorred’, destroy Númenor in a capricious fit – even if her voice had never held enough importance to stop her cousin’s debilitating politics.

Her hazel eyes didn’t take in the beauty of the frescoed walls; or the softness of the thick carpets she glided upon; nor the rainbows candlelight sprouted when collapsing against the candelabras dripping with crystals; neither the impalpable drapes hanging from the ceiling, hiding it from sight and giving the illusion a starry sky was suspended above her. No, her pupils followed the way those bloodied hair swept across that white-clad back, circling in a mocking embrace those jutting hipbones, which sharpness made them so easily noticeable even under the heavy robes – the same hipbones she had spied her husband lick with fervor.

It had been a disgusting and morbidly fascinating sight to stumble upon. Both Ar-Pharazôn and Sauron were quite handsome and together they did strike an enticing figure that, to her shame, had plagued her dreams under the boiling loneliness of her bedsheets; she had worshipped herself while revisiting the memories of their strong and male limbs entwined together, raked her blunt nails through her dark and wet curls while recalling the deep and masculine smell of their mixed sweat, dipped her fingers in her slippery folds while remembering their pleasured grunts.

But the short-lived pleasure of self-gratification was never enough to make her forget the more disturbing and debasing details of that first – and only – encounter she had happened to witness. A heavy collar of iron studded with gems had been enclosed around Ar-Pharazôn taurine neck and his every movement had been controlled by the leash lazily held by Sauron’s fingers; like a malignant puppeteer, the Maia had viciously tugged at her husband and chocked him whenever he didn’t immediately bowed to do his silent bidding, offering his mouth to worship his pallid skin and his throbbing and engorged hardness.

Shaking her head in a way that wouldn’t mess with her carefully styled curls, Tar-Míriel banished those nightmarish thoughts and entered the council room where the two males had disappeared to. As soon as her toes crossed the threshold of the door, irises burning like great bonfires focused on her and an eyebrow was elegantly arched while a smirk bared a set of white and pointy teeth “I’m so glad you chose to join us, my Queen” Sauron greeted with a purring and seductive voice that made her squirm uncomfortably as a blush mottled her cheeks.

“Are you?” asked Tar-Míriel, those two words dripping with icy venom and poisoned disbelief as she took her seat at the rounded table.

Sauron bent down and his hot breath washed over her features while a nauseatingly sweet mix of lavender and honey scents clogged her throat, making it difficult to breathe deeply “Of course, my Queen. Where would Númenor be without your wise advices?” he inquired mockingly, knowing well that she had never had much saying in the administering of the kingdom: her cousin had married her only to rise in power and steal from her more capable hands the scepter to rule Númenor.

She didn’t bother with an answer and silently waited for them to start their secret assembly, nervously twisting her fingers in her lap and hoping against hope that nothing too horrible would come out from that encounter: Ar-Pharazôn’s endless thirst for power and Sauron’s cruel manipulations were dangerous qualities to blend together, especially when there wasn’t a third element to dilute their acrid taste.

The Maia retreated to his appointed seat, the one Ar-Pharazôn should have occupied as his rightful place, and adjusted his robes before addressing them “Númenor is great” he begun, looking at them from under his lashes – Tar-Míriel shuddered at the clear attempt to using seduction to entrance his small audience “It could be greater, though”

The King nodded enthusiastically and Sauron rewarded him with a patronizing and tight-lipped smile that made her wife wonder about how could he not notice it “It will be greater” he exhaled, pupils widening and swallowing up the warm brown of his irises as if the mere idea of more power was sexually arousing.

“If you’re amenable to listen to my suggestion, you’ll find I already have a plan to make Númenor the greatest kingdom ever” he offered, stroking Ar-Pharazôn’s ego with false deference “And make you Arda’s rightful Emperor” he added.

Tar-Míriel had to begrudgingly admire the Maia: the way he spoke and arranged his words was clever, tailored to play on her husband’s weaknesses with relative ease and faked naturalness that would be more appealing than blatant manipulation “You speak many words, Sauron” she pointed out, drawing to herself an homicidal glare from Ar-Pharazôn and an interested leer from Sauron: she didn’t know which one to fear the most.

“Is my Queen bored with the premises?”

“I’d rather you spoke without so many…frills” Tar-Míriel proposed “We’re doing politics, after all, not writing poems”

Sauron acknowledged her with a measured bow of his head that made sunlight catch on the almost invisible flowery etchings on his circlet, unmasking the beautiful craftsmanship hidden behind false simplicity “I apologize, my Queen” he pleaded, well aware that platitudes wouldn’t make her less suspicious of him: it was amazing, how Ar-Pharazôn had never noticed what jewel his cousin was with her cleverness and political mind “Do you know of my marriage to a divinity?”

The King frowned “Are you talking about Morgoth?” he inquired, chocking on a wave of jealousy: the mere idea of someone else being granted the privilege of worshipping the temple that was Sauron’s perfect lithe and masculine body, made his blood boil.

“Melkor!” Sauron snapped: he had let those creatures call him by that wretched name, but he wouldn’t stand for his lover to be called as anything but ‘He who Arises in Might’ “And yes, I’m referring to him”

“Were you truly married?” Tar-Míriel asked for further explanations.

“It depends on what you identify as marriage, my Queen” the Maia answered promptly, seizing his chance to bring Tar-Míriel to his side with the romantic tale of star-crossed lovers “In the eyes of the Valar we’re nothing more than sinning creatures, spirits rebelling to the will of their Creator; they seek to smooth the disturbance our love has created and chained my lover in the Halls of Mandos, hoping to break our connection and make him see the ‘right way’ again” Bitterness dripped from every letter “If we managed to bring him back to Arda, he would award you with his servitude” he lied.

The King licked his suddenly dry lips “Would he truly pledge his power to my cause?”

Sauron cocked his head to the side in quiet affirmation “He would be grateful for his newly-granted freedom and would greatly reward the conqueror of his prison”

Tar-Míriel trembled in her chair: she didn’t like the direction the discussion was going to, but immediately recognized herself unable to stop its terrible unfolding as she witnessed Sauron’s magic take a firm hold of her husband, whose eyes were shining and glazed over because of the image his counselor was painting with few but effective strokes. She was just human – her husband was just a Man! And even if she loathed him for having enslaved her as his wife, she didn’t wish for her cousin to get caught up in the affairs of the Valar: they were mortal and shouldn’t have to meddle with gods and their childishly eternal fights. She felt in her soul that nothing good would come from teaming up with Morgoth and Sauron in a war between spiteful immortals.

“How do you suggest we bring him back?”

The Maia grinned broadly “Establishing an official worshipping of Melkor and sacrificing traitors in his honor would lend him the strength to break the chains holding him” And he would come back to him, hold him again in the safe circle of his arms.

* * *

 

Ar-Pharazôn sobbed as he crawled up Sauron’s body, relief rushing through his veins and making him dizzy once he had been granted the permission to fuck himself on that beautiful and hard length; the Maia had had him so worked up that he didn’t care he had been forbidden to use any kind of substance to ease the friction: if he was quick, his saliva wouldn’t have the time to dry on that scalding hot and smooth skin.

Grasping the thick base with a shaking hand, he guided Sauron’s hardness to his unprepared entrance and sank onto it, relishing in the horrid pain that shot up his spine and in the sticky lubrication of his blood seeping from the rupturing flesh. In those moments, he couldn’t recall why he had lusted after his cousin: being with a male was so much more satisfying – earthshattering.

“If you want to come, you’ll have to do everything” Mairon drawled lazily, seemingly unaffected by the tightness wrapping his manhood and periodically clenching around it as if to milk him. Sex with Ar-Pharazôn was a boring necessity, a mean to keep the man bound to him and eager to do anything with the promise of a reward – and even if it felt filthy, whoring himself in such a manner, he was glad that it would help to free Melkor from his prison.

Closing his eyes to avoid focusing on the King so lewdly bouncing on his cock, Mairon imagined of thrusting deep into his lover’s body, fingers buried in the unruly black mane that crowned his head and lips chanting love in harsh Black Speech against his tongue.

“I’ll build you a temple to celebrate your beauty and greatness” the man whimpered, rocking his hips harder “I’ll write prayers on your skin with my fingertips” His words were strangled by the effort of impaling himself again and again on Sauron’s immobile body “I’ll worship you with everything I am, ‘till you’ll shine and everyone will fall on their knees in awe of your divinity”

Long and dexterous fingers slithered around Ar-Pharazôn’s throat and started squeezing steadily, mercilessly crushing his wind-pipe and cutting off his fanatic ramblings. In the end, Mairon came with Melkor’s smile imprinted on his lowered eyelids and the King’s wheezing breaths filling his head with a pleasurable humming.

* * *

 

The shadow of the Great Temple fell on Tar-Míriel’s window and sensually spilled into her bedroom, claiming her only private space as its own with its suffocating but subtle presence.

The whole building was made of silver and it shimmered blindingly under the sunrays, emanating waves of scorching warmth that made the eye see everything distorted because of the excessive heat; it reminded Tar-Míriel of the only time she had been in the forge of a blacksmith to admire the forging of a pair of earrings her father had commissioned for her mother – even that treasured, childish memory was being tainted by Sauron.

In the moonlight, the temple shined softly and it seemed that the moon itself had fallen upon Arda and pay homage to Númenor with its silvery and opalescent light – even the simple pleasure of admiring Varda’s creations had been robbed by Sauron and his maniacal attempt to reach his husband.

Falling to her knees, eyes focused on that evanescent gigantic ghost, Tar-Míriel let tears bathe her cheeks and pleaded her ancestors for forgiveness: Númenor – the Valar’s gift to Men – was bound to fall.

* * *

 

Slow and curling in voluptuous waves, thick and nauseating smoke polluted the air. It mixed with the few and wispy white clouds and darkened the blue sky.

Soot was dusted on the whole city. It covered the shining walls of the temple, darkening the silver. It shrouded people’s heads and was inhaled in their lungs, where it started to fester like a cancer. It fell in the turquoise sea and poisoned its salty waters.

Blazing hot flames licked up charred bodies, twisting them in horrid and contorted shapes of pure agony. They raised to the sky in a sibilant and creaking prayer.

Screams thrummed in the passersby’s heads at the thumping and frightened rhythm of their blood as they stared at the traitors being burned alive in the name of Morgoth, their limbs tied to altars of gold that melted with their cooking skin and greatened the pain of their unwarranted punishment. They drowned the sick noises of bursting boils, of exploding eyeballs and snapping tendons.

Perched upon a throne of iron, Sauron looked down at the sacrifices and chanted a repulsive hymn in Black Speech. He seemed unaware of the human ashes that blanketed his thick ivory robes, embellished with cobalt and crimson embroideries, and his hair in which pearls and golden chains had been artfully braided. He kept singing with his melodic voice, licking the sweet grime from his lips and baring his throat to exploit his vocal chords to their full potential – a war cry and a love poem to Valinor.

* * *

 

Mairon intoned the mass, eyes not bothering to focus on the accolades hanging from the harsh and sharp-edged words in Black Speech that they couldn’t understand. Instead, he kept looking at the rose window, transfixed by the setting sun lightening up the beautiful and rich colors.

His voice rose in celebration, grew stronger and deeper while his pupils caught the shimmering of the waves behind the stained glass. His soul felt attracted to the never ending horizon, instinctively looking for the West were he knew the Valar had hidden Valinor.The Maia remembered the place with conflicting emotions.

He had lived his youth in Valinor, working in Aulë’s forges with true pleasure; the Vala had taught him how to channel his talent in beautiful creations and always offered words of praise when he had felt underappreciated. He had eaten at his table, reveling in the taste of Yavanna’s delicious food and helped her to harvest the juicy peaches he had been so fond of. He had bathed in crystalline rivers, hidden to everyone but Eru’s creation, feeling one with his Maker. He had laughed with Melkor, uncaring of Manwë’s suspicious glances drilling holes in his back, and had fallen in love with the witty and charming ‘Mighty Arising’. He had bonded with his lover on bed of grass, mind shattered by the utter relief of having found his One and the hatred for the other Valar who refused to acknowledge their love.

But it had also been the place where he had felt invisible, a mere pawn in a greater scheme. There he had been shunned for being hard-working and able to think with his own head, choosing to listen to the Vala everyone pretended he didn’t exist. He had been harassed and labelled a freak by the other Maiar when he and Melkor had become public – as if his mentor’s crystal clear displeasure hadn’t been enough. He had fled from Valinor, calloused and burnt fingers entwined with Melkor’s, only to find peace.

And now it was his lover’s prison.

Mairon spread his arms and craned back his neck, pouring his woe in the temple as tears slithered down his cheeks and he started to burn: his fair form self-combusted and a cracking, yellowish-orange fire became his body as he transformed into Melkor’s Little Flame – a mute and intimate homage to his husband.

* * *

 

Bent over the altar, Ar-Pharazôn cried as the High Priest forcefully snapped his hips and drove his hardness deeper into his spasmodically clenching hole. Sauron was fucking him with rage, chasing with fierceness his release and uncaring of the rigid and unaroused body beneath him, fingers gripping short hair and repeatedly slamming the King’s head on the marbled surface to suffocate his pitiful whimpers.

With slitted pupils roaming over Melkor’s statue looming over them, Mairon gritted his teeth and sped up his unforgiving thrusts, sweating upon a broad and bloodied back while the twisting feeling of nausea and peaking orgasm uncomfortably tangled together in his stomach.

He came with an unsatisfied shout, muscles cramping and his bloodied semen dripping from the filthy man’s thorn entrance, smearing his quivering thighs.

* * *

 

Tar-Míriel didn’t even shudder when the screams started piercing Númenor’s air again and the smell of burning hair and skin seeped into her room. Almost robotically, she got up from her bed and went to shut the window closed, banishing the horrid reality from the safe haven of her chambers – as if to confirm her quiet statement, she also closed the curtains before sinking again amidst the soft bedsheets.

It had been days since the last time she had dared to roam the halls of her palace and had spent the time in complete solitude, mostly on her knees, praying the Valar to help them – save them from the maniac, who acted as Númenor effective King.

No answers had come.

How could they ignore what was happening when a cloud of human ashes perpetually billowed above the island? Wasn’t it a clear cry of help? Had Men disappointed the Valar so thoroughly that they deemed Sauron and his deeds a rightful punishment? Only silence rang among her four walls. 

* * *

 

Once again the triad was sat at the council room table.

Fatigued and drained of her energy, Tar-Míriel listened to Sauron’s fanatical ramblings with her black-circled eyes cast downwards and bony hands abandoned in her lap, fingers idly picking at a loose thread in her burgundy robes.

Only a shell of what he used to be, Ar-Pharazôn looked at the High Priest with empty eyes and nodded at every single word that rolled down that seductive tongue, not bothering to understand the meaning of his speech.

Mairon grinned evilly as he took in the royals’ defeated attitude “Melkor spoke to me: we need to attack Valinor”

A careless shrug of a female shoulder and a sour grimace on a beautiful face.

A greedy and mumbled ‘yes’ in a masculine voice.

That was all that took to write the fate of Númenor and its impending fall from grace.

A sharp laugh travelled to Valinor, slithering in the Halls of Mandos where Melkor listened to it with relief, echoing it with his baritonal voice: soon, he would be free.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it :) some things were pretty hard to write, expecially since I'm pyrophobic (and Mairon felt the need to burn people alive to prove his love to Melkor, the lil' shit) but I'm satisfied of how it turned out.


End file.
